


The Guardsman

by imonlyalittlecrazy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abaddon is awful, BAMF Dean, Charlie is a good bro, Dean Needs A Hug, F/F, F/M, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Lucifer is a Little Shit, M/M, Metatron is a creep, Michael is an Ass, it gets kind of ridiculous, king!cas, meg is awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-15 09:24:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5780425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imonlyalittlecrazy/pseuds/imonlyalittlecrazy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel was four years old, his father disappeared and left him with a shattered kingdom. Now Castiel must navigate cutthroat politics, power hungry relatives, and a ruthless neighboring kingdom in order to keep his throne and everything he loves.<br/>Dean Winchester has always had a problem with authority. When his commanding officer submits an official complaint about him to the king, he has no idea what his rebellious nature has gotten him into.<br/>As Castiel and Dean become friends (plus a little something more) the kingdom edges towards war with forces both outside and within its own borders, and the two must decide between fighting and dying, or running and staying alive.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is my first fic posted of AO3, so I'm a little nervous. I really love Supernatural (I don't own any of the characters or events unfortunately) so this has been a lot of fun for me to write! If for (some strange reason) you actually like this, please leave kudos!  
> Disclaimer: I am terrible at updating, so don't look for a chapter for a while. (However, leaving kudos and comments might encourage me to write more, possibly)  
> I don't have anyone to read this before it goes out, so if you notice anything weird going on with my spelling or grammar or whatever, please feel free to comment (nicely) below.

When Castiel was four years old, his mother died. No one really knew why, she just wasted away until one day she didn't wake up. Castiel's father was devastated and two years later, he disappeared. That was quite a problem considering he was the sole monarch of Heavendell and had no heirs save Castiel, who was only six years old and not able to rule anything. Now fourteen years later, it was Castiel's job to clean up his father's mess.

"Your Highness," a large dark-skinned man standing at the foot of the dais rumbled, "with respect, these rebellions along the border must be quelled, you can't sit here in the throne room and let Helladon's demons…"

"He is King, Uriel," drawled a shorter, rounder man with an insistent nasally voice, "He does not have to do anything, in particular humor your petty boarder feuds."

"Metatron, perhaps Uriel has a point," a regal, coffee-skinned woman interjected, "The rebels are capturing many of our supply wagons before they can deliver their cargo."

Metatron simply shrugged. "It is no concern of ours. The capitol is being kept well fed, it's simply the peasant farmers in Purgatory who won't get any food, and when have we ever cared about them?" He ended his comment with what, out of context, might have seemed like a good-natured chuckle.

An auburn-haired woman stepped forward and pointed an accusing finger at Metatron, "So you're suggesting we just let them starve?"

"Look Naomi," sighed a sharp-featured man with a shadow of white hair on his otherwise bald scalp, "just because you and Raphael pretend to have 'morals' doesn't mean you're any better than the rest of us."

"At least I'm not a blood-hungry fear monger like you Zachariah." Naomi asserted sweetly.

Castiel sighed as an argument broke out between his five advisors, again. When Castiel's father vanished, he left behind a power vacuum that was, after a series of short, bloody revolutions, filled by the five regents: Uriel, Naomi, Zachariah, Raphael, and Metatron. Castiel liked none of them, but he hated Metatron the most. Two years ago, when Castiel had first become king, Metatron had filled his head with schemes and lies in an attempt to rid himself of the other four regents and have sole control over the king. Luckily, the others had stopped him before his plans could come to fruition, but Castiel knew that it was less about fidelity and more about maintaining their positions. They were all greedy and ruthless, but Raphael, Zachariah, Naomi and Uriel had proved themselves to be at least temporarily loyal to the throne. Metatron shared no such loyalty. However, he controlled a large part of Heavendell in the east, and Castiel couldn't get rid of him without losing major trading routes and Metatron's bursting coffers.

When the fighting had reached a fever pitch, Castiel could take no more, "Stop!" His deep voice carried over the argument, "Just stop!" He took a deep breath to calm himself. "Metatron," he directed his attention at the portly man who adopted an innocent look, "Even though Purgatory is technically a disputed territory, we cannot just forget about the people who live there. After all, many of them are Heavendellian." Metatron bowed his head in compliance, but Castiel noticed that his innocent expression became slightly strained. Castiel turned his attention to Uriel who looked to be on the verge of strangling someone. "Uriel, I understand that the rebels have been a problem and I agree that something must be done." Uriel seemed pleased and out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw Zachariah scowl. "However," Uriel's smile lessened a bit, "Our troops are already too spread out trying to maintain peace between rebel groups here in Heavendell, and unless you can round up more recruits in the next few days, we can't possibly risk sending a squad as far away as Purgatory." This time it was Uriel's turn to scowl. Castiel knew that Uriel's land abutted Purgatory and was likely to be the regent most affected by the turmoil there.

Though Castiel hated making decisions against the people of Purgatory, often he was forced to do just that. It was distressing to think that the people of Heavendell were so comfortable with disregarding the suffering of people who only differed in their location on the other side of a border that shifted so constantly it might as well have been imaginary.

Castiel turned to the man standing to the right of the dais, "General Singer, do you have a squad of Hunters who could travel to Purgatory and settle some of the conflicts there?"

Singer sighed. The Hunters were not supposed to perform such work as quelling rebellion. They worked from the shadows, protecting the kingdom's borders from spies. However, since the decline of Heavendell and its monarchy, the elite group had been more frequently with jobs less suiting their position as best of the best.

"Yes, your highness," General Singer said at last, "I can send a few, but we've lost a lot of Hunters, and I'm not sure we can keep up with Abaddon's spies if we keep getting distracted. You're going to have to find another way." Normally, even senior officials wouldn't dare speak to the king with such frankness, but Bobby Singer had been like a father to Castiel, and was more experienced in the arts of war and espionage than anyone Castiel had ever met.

"Thank you General Singer." And Castiel meant it, "The rest of you, dismissed." With that, the regents shuffled out, casting suspicious glares at one another all the way. Castiel sighed again, this time out loud. "Remind me why I have to keep them around?" He requested to Bobby.

The older man laughed and said gruffly, "They may be a bunch of idjits, but they're rich idjits and we need to play 'em for all they've got." He gave Castiel a knowing look, "And if you haven't noticed, we're not exactly swimming in gold around these parts."

It was to true. The constant series of rebellions had depleted the kingdom's coffers until there was almost nothing left. A headache started to form behind Castiel's eyes, and he rubbed his temples in an attempt to relieve it. "We cannot keep relying on the regents. They may claim to be loyal to me, but who knows how long that will last." Bobby nodded in agreement, "The only thing they care about is power and if someone can offer them more than I give," Castiel groaned, "God only knows what havoc they could unleash."

Bobby opened his mouth as if to say something, but was interrupted. The door of the throne room swung open and Castiel's attendant, Samandriel, strode into the room. "Your Grace, a Captain Walker has requested an audience with you." He announced, "He has made laid an official complaint against Commander Milton and a Sergeant Winchester."

"Very well," Castiel hated official complaints, "Show them in." He glanced at Bobby, and noticed he had a curious and slightly worried expression on his face.

Samandriel left briefly and returned with a party of three. Following behind the attendant was a sour looking man with unsettling dark eyes; Castiel's own cousin, Anna Milton; and a tall light haired stranger with playful smirk etched on his freckled face. Samandriel introduced them, "Your Majesty, Captain Gordon Walker," he gestured to the dark eyed man, "Commander Anna Milton," Anna smiled kindly at Castiel, and he smiled back. His cousin was one of the few people Castiel could call a friend. Samandriel indicated the final man and declared, ". . . and Sergeant Dean Winchester." Castiel finally took a proper look at the sergeant. He was tall and well built, and held himself with the air of one who knows exactly how dangerous he is. To Castiel's surprise, the sergeant met his stare and Castiel noticed that the other man's eyes were as startlingly vivid shade of green.

"Your Majesty," Castiel broke his gaze away from the sergeant's green eyed stare and directed his attention to Captain Walker, who began, "I have lodged an official complaint against Sergeant Walker and Commander Milton on the grounds of defiance towards an officer, endangerment of fellow soldiers and disregard for protocols."

Anna remained impassive; ever the level-headed leader, but Castiel saw the sergeant's eyes narrow and his jaw clench in anger at Walkers words.

Walker continued, "Sergeant Winchester transferred to the Garrison three months ago and since then, he has openly defied me on no less than five separate occasions." He shot and angry glare at the sergeant who's lips twitched up into a sarcastic smirk. Walkers scowl deepened. "I spoke with Commander Milton about the issue, but she refused to dismiss him from the Garrison."

Anna shrugged, "Sergeant Winchester is a capable and valuable officer. I thought it best he stay in the Garrison since it is becoming harder to find new recruits."

Walker fumed, "Sergeant Winchester disobeyed a direct order and led untried recruits into the field, which could have cost many soldiers their lives."

"But it didn't!" It was the first time Castiel had heard the sergeant speak. His voice was low and rough, and surprisingly pleasant to listen to.

The captain did not seem to share Castiel's opinion though, because he spat, "What did you say?"

The sergeant didn't seem fazed by Walker's threatening tone, "If you are referring to the Blackwater Ridge incident, then my 'defiance' saved you and what was left of your squad." Walker tensed noticeably, "I seem to remember there weren't many of them left seeing as you stupidly lead them straight into a Helladonian ambush."

"You son of a bitch!" Walker exploded. He hurled himself at the sergeant, but Anna stepped in and shoved him back. He continued to yell insults while Anna attempted to calm him down. The sergeant, however, looked rather satisfied at Walker's outburst.

With yet another sigh, Castiel put an end to what seemed like the umpteenth argument he had witnessed that day, "Silence!" The fight ended as quickly as it had started.

As soon as she had sufficiently calmed down, Anna had the grace to look embarrassed. She stepped forwards, "Please, Your Majesty, I apologize for my soldiers' behavior."

The sergeant's face was impassive, but his eyes gleamed with anger. The man intrigued Castiel, in a way he couldn't quite explain. "Sergeant Winchester," Castiel began, "Can you please tell me in your own words what happened at Blackwater Ridge?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," The sergeant lowered his head respectfully, "Blackwater Ridge was a Hunter safe house. They sent a rider with a request for reinforcements to the Garrison post outside of Lost Creek. It seemed a group of Helladonian soldiers had somehow found them and were attacking the valley where the base was located." As he said this, his face was filled with an emotion that Castiel couldn't quite place. "Captain Walker seemed to think that my squad was," his eyes narrowed, "not capable of handling a high tension situation. He ordered me to stay back." Walker gritted his teeth, as the sergeant continued, "Captain Walker lead his squad right into a trap. I made a call." He shrugged, "At the time, it was the only option to save both the Hunters and Captain Walker." He met Castiel's eyes and finished earnestly, "I wouldn't hesitate in making the same call again if I had to."

Walker growled, "You disobeyed a direct order."

"I saved people!" The sergeant shouted.

"Dean!" Anna snapped. The Commander's use of Winchester's first name startled Castiel. He wondered if there was something going on between the two of them, and he frowned at the thought, though he wasn't quite sure why.

To his credit, the sergeant did look embarrassed by his outburst. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty, that was uncalled for." He lowered his head and muttered clearly enough to be heard, "Please believe me when I say I had the best of intentions." '

Castiel believed him. It was clear that Sergeant Winchester was an honorable soldier, if a slightly rebellious one. However, Castiel couldn't hand out judgements based on whether or not he liked someone. Winchester had disobeyed multiple orders, and that was grounds for dismissal. "If you could all wait in the hall, I will notify you of my decision in a moment." When the trio had left the throne room, Castiel turned to Bobby. "What do you think of Captain Walker?"

Bobby pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Walker's a good soldier. In fact, he's a fantastic one," he shook his head, "But he's no leader. He holds a grudge far too easily." With a worried glance at the door, the General finished, "I'm worried about Dean."

"You know the sergeant?" Castiel asked in surprise.

"Well, yeah." Bobby looked a little embarrassed, "Before he joined the Garrison, he was a Hunter. In fact, he was probably the best, though his brother, Sam, gave him a run for his money."

"His brother?" Castiel's mind was turning furiously with the new information. "His brother is a Hunter?" The sergeant's willingness to help the Hunters made sense now; his brother must have been one of the ones trapped in the valley. Castiel's curiosity about the green-eyed man grew. "Tell me about him." He requested to Bobby.

"He's a tough son of a bitch, I'll give him that," Bobby replied, "and about as loyal as they come. Once you've gained his trust, he'll fight for you till the end." An idea was starting to form in Castiel's mind. "He doesn't like orders much though, and I never understood why he left the Hunters and joined the Garrison. He's an incredible swordsman and a cunning tactician, but he's got. . ." Bobby trailed off as if unsure how to continue. ". . . baggage." he said finally, "of the emotional sort."

Castiel nodded, understanding and asked, "Do you trust him?"

"With my life," was Bobby's simple reply.

The idea in Castiel's mind started to solidify. If what the General said about the sergeant was true, then Dean Winchester was the perfect candidate for the job he had in mind. "Bring them in!" He called to Samandriel.

The trio returned in quite worse shape than they had left. The sergeant had a split lip, Anna's usually perfect bun was hanging half undone around her face, and Walker's nose was trickling blood.

"What happened?" Castiel demanded in shock.

Samandriel stuttered nervously, "Well, Captain Walker punched Sergeant Winchester and said some unflattering things about his mother, and then Commander Milton punched Captain Walker."

This surprised Castiel. He had only seen Anna loose her cool a few times in his life. If whatever Captain Walker had said was bad enough to make her hit him, then he probably deserved it. "In the future," he stated dryly, looking between the three of them, "If you could kindly refrain from holding a boxing match in my waiting hall, that would be much appreciated." At this, Walker fumed, Anna lowered her head ashamedly and Sergeant Winchester couldn't quite hold back a short bark of laughter.

"Now," Castiel announced, "to the matter at hand." A twist of guilt snaked into the pit of his stomach. He looked into the sergeant's green eyes and tried to silently impress upon him how sorry he was, and said, "While I do believe Sergeant Winchester to be a capable and highly qualified officer, he did disobey a direct order, and that is grounds for dismissal." The sergeant lowered his eyes, anger and humiliation chasing their way across his face. "Sergeant Winchester, I am sorry to say that you're hereby removed from the Garrison." Walker's triumphant smile sickened Castiel. "Dismissed!" he snapped at the captain who gave a perfunctory bow, turned on his heels and marched out the door, followed shortly by the other two soldiers. The sergeant was almost out the door when Castiel called, "Sergeant Winchester, may I have a moment please?"

The sergeant turned slowly, his face impassive. "Of course, Your Majesty." He didn't meet Castiel's gaze, but kept his eyes fixed on a point somewhere behind Castiel's head. "I apologize for my outburst, and I thank you for being so frank with my punishment."

With a sigh, Castiel said quietly, "Sergeant Winchester, I assure you I did not want to dismiss you from the Garrison, and I'm sorry that I was forced to make that decision."

Winchester looked him in the eye with a bitter laugh, "Forced?"

Castiel felt a heat rise to his cheeks, "I can't waive punishment just because you were acting nobly. You defied an order." Sergeant Winchester's face hardened in anger and Castiel took a breath to calm himself down. "However," he began tentatively, "I do not wish your talents to be wasted." The sergeant raised his eyebrows skeptically. "I have a position open in my personal guard. Would you consider filling it?"

Castiel wasn't exactly sure what he had expected the sergeant to do, but he definitely did not expect for him to burst out laughing. Yet laugh he did, practically doubling over with the force of his chuckles.

Again, Castiel felt the heat of anger and embarrassment rise up his neck and stain his cheeks. "What?" He demanded, "What is so funny."

The sergeant attempted to get his answer out from between giggles, but was having a hard time. "It's just. . ." He met Castiel's gaze, ". . . that you want me. . ." He broke the gaze with another bout of laughter, ". . . to be your personal guard!"

The blush spread further across Castiel's face. "I don't understand." He snapped angrily at the other man, "Please enlighten me on what you find so amusing, Sergeant."

All at once the laughter stopped, and the sergeant said with a wistful look on his face, "Look Your Majesty, I'm not a good man. I've made a lot of mistakes in my life." He lowered his head and Castiel could have sworn he saw the glimmer of a tear on the other man's lashes. "I just don't think you want to place your life in my hands."

Castiel's anger abated, and he was filled with a rush of sympathy for the sergeant. "All the same," Castiel commented with a tentative smile, "I was rather hoping you would give it a try."

After a moment of silence, the sergeant looked up and met Castiel's piercing blue gaze. His lips twitched into a brief grin and he said finally, "Alright then, when do I start."

Castiel smiled in earnest and answered, "You can report here tomorrow to meet the rest of the guard." Winchester nodded, and turned to leave, "Sergeant Winchester," Castiel called before he could make it out the door. The other man turned and Castiel remarked, "I look forward to working with you." With that, the sergeant left the hall, leaving Castiel to wonder if he had made the right decision.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here is the long awaited Chapter 2! Sorry it took so long, but I am a busy person and an unmotivated writer with a thousand pound block (god damn it!). Thanks to everyone who left kudos on the last chapter, you guys rock! Hope you enjoy!

Dean walked down the magnificent hallways of the palace feeling suitably out of place. He mentally kicked himself for his performance in front of the king. What was he thinking, losing his cool like that? Thank God Anna had been there, because without her he might have killed Gordon.

In his head, Dean kept replaying the king’s last words to him. “I look forward to working with you.” He chuckled slightly, still not quite believing that the events of the last thirty minutes were real. The king looked forward to working with him. Him. Dean Winchester. Dean Nothing-I-do-will-ever-turn-out-okay Winchester. Dean wondered, not for the first time and definitely not for the last, if perhaps this whole thing was a cruel joke. Maybe Gordon had decided it wasn’t enough to simply get Dean dismissed from the guard, and had somehow managed to convince the King to offer him a fake job. In the hysterical part of his mind, Dean half expected Castiel to jump out from behind the corner shouting, “Ha ha, just kidding!” That didn’t happen of course, but that still didn't stop Dean from worrying.

The king might have thought Dean was worth giving a chance, but he didn’t know about all the things in Dean's life that proved otherwise. All of the people Dean let down, and all of the opportunities he had missed hung over Dean's head like a cloud of locusts, like a plague that followed him and infected everyone he was supposed to protect. Dean had promised himself he wouldn't let it happen to anyone else, and Castiel was no different.

Dean didn't know why, but there was something about the king that drew him in, something about the way he looked at Dean. Castiel had looked at Dean like he was a person and it had been a long time since anyone in his life had thought that. After he had returned from Purgatory, the people in Dean's life alternately tiptoed around him like he was made of glass, or treated him like garbage. Personally, Dean couldn't help but feel he deserved the later. 

However, the way the king had treated him gave Dean the feeling that Castiel actually wanted him around, that the king was actually pleased that Dean had agreed, that maybe he actually liked Dean. 

A stab of self loathing shot through Dean as he remembered all the times he was wrong about things like that, and how many people were hurt because of it. The king didn't know him, and if he ever did, he would understand that Dean was a curse, and not someone to be trusted. This was, Dean told himself, inevitability and he would be left out in the cold again. Just like with his father, just like with Sam and just like with Benny. Dean decided to stop thinking about the king, and strode through the massive entryway. 

The bright sun nearly blinded Dean as he walked down the palace steps and into the street below. His head was still swimming and he decided he needed a drink to clear it (or more accurately, make it fuzzy enough to forget). The pub, The Ghost, was a frequent haunt of his, and the bartenders, Ed and Harry, rolled their eyes when they saw him enter. Dean did not like Ed and Harry very much. They were loud and annoying and they seemed to enjoy mocking him about his frequency of visits. 

Sure enough, as soon as Dean took a seat on the creaking barstool, Ed approached him, drawling, “Sargent Winchester it’s been a while.”

Ed’s best friend and business partner, Harry sauntered up, “Yeah, we were starting to worry about you, since you hadn’t come in for a few days. We honestly thought you were, like, dead or something.”

Dean rolled his eyes, "Shut up and get me an ale."

"No need to be so unfriendly." Harry said reproachfully, then turned to Ed and whispered, loudly enough for Dean to hear, "Geez, what died in his breakfast."

Ed pushed a tankard of ale towards Dean and replied louder than Harry in a way that made it clear he wasn't trying to hide it, "I don’t know, probably his happiness, oh wait," He paused, cocking his head as if realizing something, "that was already dead."

Though he usually didn’t let the prickly bartenders get to him, Dean couldn't help feeling a surge of defensiveness swell in his gut. "Shut up." He growled and took a sip out of the tankard. The ale, as usual, was disgusting, but Dean drank it anyway, waiting for the alcohol to set in and the pleasant buzz to commence. 

"It's a little early in the day to start drinking don't you think?" A familiar and unexpected voice said from Dean's left.

Dean turned to see the grinning face of his brother, Sam. "Maybe for lightweights like you," Dean replied with a smile of his own, "What brings you to this fine establishment?"

Sam slid into a barstool next to him and motioned for a drink, "I was looking for you. I've got a few days in the city and thought we could. . . " he paused as if unsure how to phrase what he was about to say, ". . . spend some time together." 

Dean didn't like the tone of Sam's suggestion. It seemed too innocent, like Sam was trying to mask something awful with something irrelevant. Though he wasn't quite sure, Dean thought his brother probably wanted to know about what had happened in Purgatory. Dean hadn’t seen Sam since he got back three months ago, and though Sam had most likely heard rumors, Dean would bet that Sam wanted to hear it first hand. Though he loved his brother, Dean had no intention of telling.

Raising an eyebrow, Dean snapped sarcastically, "Oh really, spend some time together, huh? Are we going to go get our hair done and talk about our feelings?" Sam opened his mouth to say something, but Dean interrupted him, "'Cause if so, I've got to go grab my diary."

With a scowl that Dean was all too familiar with, Sam muttered, "You know that's not what I meant Dean," he lowered his eyes, "I'm just worried about you." The younger man took a sip from his tankard and shuddered at the taste then looked up and fixed Dean with a piercing stare, "Bobby contacted me and told me you haven't talked to him in days, that you haven't talked to anyone." Dean looked away trying to escape the concerned intensity of Sam's gaze, "You have people who care about you, you know. You can't just shut us out."

Dean laughed bitterly, "Watch me." With that, he turned back to his tankard and drained it. Harry appeared almost immediately with a smirk and another full tankard. Dean didn't appreciate the attitude, but he appreciated the alcohol, so he accepted the offered drink with a terse nod.

He could hear Sam let out a frustrated sigh next to him, and for the next couple of minutes, things were mercifully quiet. That didn't last long, though, because Sam spoke up, trying to sound casual and not worried. "How are things going in The Garrison?"

An unintentional frown chased its way across Dean's face, and he turned away, hoping Sam wouldn't notice the bitterness in his voice as he answered, "It's fine. They're fine. Everything's fine" 

However, Sam did notice. "What’s up?" He elbowed Dean gently, "They giving you a hard time?" 

Dean forced an angry laugh, "Yeah, that's it."  
Sam wasn't convinced, though, and he frowned, "What happened Dean?" He was using his worried-younger-brother-who-just-wants-to-help voice paired with a set of worried puppy dog eyes. In all of the 21 years Dean had spent with his brother, he had never figured out how to lie to that combination, at least, not convincingly.

Taking another long swig from the tankard Dean answered in what he hoped was an unbothered tone, but turned out to be more of a resentful one, "I was dismissed."  
Sam's reaction was immediate, "What?" Dean internally winced at the shock and disappointment in his brother's voice. "You were dismissed?" Sam's voice rose in pitch and volume, in a way that would have been comical in a different situation.

"Jeez," Dean muttered, his voice tinged with embarrassment, "Why don't you say that a little louder just in case anyone didn’t hear you."

His brother ignored him and kept on going, "Are you kidding me, Dean? You come back from whatever happened in Purgatory and you won't talk to any of us about it! You leave without explanation and disappear for months!" Sam was full on shouting by this point, and Dean really wanted to get angry, but all he felt was resignation, because he knew he deserved it. "I finally manage to track you down only to find you in this dump . . ." from behind the counter, Ed shot Sam an ugly glare, ". . . completely alone and drowning your sorrows in alcohol." Sam lowered his voice dangerously and fixed Dean with a glare that could melt iron, "How long has this been going on?" 

Swallowing hard, Dean decided to go with the truth as opposed to the many lies he had lining up on his lips, "Look Sammy, I only just found out today. I'm not going to pretend and say that I would have told you, but it’s not as if I kept it from you." Sam's eyes narrowed angrily, "It's only been about an hour, so . . ." Dean trailed off not sure how to get out of the pit he had dug himself into. 

"Tell me what happened." Sam's voice left no room for argument.  
Dean began slowly, telling about his initial problems with Gordon in fits and bursts, but as the story progressed, Dean found himself pouring out his stress and troubles to his brother. He related Gordon's fury over what had happened at Blackwater Ridge and Sam sucked in a startled breath, obviously unaware Dean had been the one who saved him there. For a moment, Dean was sure his brother would interrupt him and start yelling again, but Sam stayed mercifully silent as Dean launched into the events of the last few hours. 

When Dean reached the part in his story where the king had offered him a position in his guard, he stopped mid sentence, "Well, then he . . ." Dean couldn't quite find the words to explain to Sam what the king had done. He wasn't even sure it really happened.

Sam urged Dean on, "What did he do?"

"He, um . . ." Dean swallowed hard, ". . . he offered me a position . . ." the next words on his tongue felt foreign and wrong, ". . . he offered me a position in his personal guard."

For a long time, Sam just stared at Dean, his mouth agape. However, when he finally did manage to find his voice he squeaked out, "You're joking, right?"

Dean recognized the hilarity of the situation and let out a slightly hysterical laugh, "Wish I was, Sammy, but I'm not. The fucking king actually asked me to protect him." 

"What are you going to do?" Sam's eyes were earnest and worried, as if he could see how much the decision was hurting his brother.

Sam's question rang through his ears. What would he do? Dean had spent most of his life dealing with the responsibility of protecting people. When he was little, he took care of Sam. When he joined the guard, he was responsible for Gwen and Annie. In Purgatory he was supposed to keep Benny safe. He ended up failing all of those people, and he didn't know if he could take the weight of another failure. However, the seemingly unquenchable light that sparkled within Castiel's eyes made Dean want to try, if only for a little while. With a shake of his head, Dean finally replied, "I don't know, I really don't know." 

With not his first sigh of the day (and definitely not his last), Sam began, "I think you should do it Dean." 

Dean looked up from his tankard in surprise, "Are you serious? After everything that you know I've done?" He wasn't going to mention that there was a lot that Sam didn't know about. "You really think I deserve another chance?" 

"Yes," Sam replied simply, "I do." He rose from his seat, throwing a few coins on the counter as he did so, and left with the comment, "You're a good man Dean, and one of these days you will see what everyone else does." 

Dean sat at the bar for a long time before he even considered the possibility that his brother might have been right. The thought was dismissed quickly and nearly forgotten by Dean's fourth tankard of ale. Nearly, but not quite.


End file.
